


The Stargate Affair

by lovelokest



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcshep_match, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-01
Updated: 2010-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelokest/pseuds/lovelokest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>safe-con·duct<br/>n.<br/>1. An official document or an escort assuring unmolested passage, as through enemy territory.<br/>2. The protection afforded by such a document.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stargate Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to trinityofone and sheafrotherdon for insightful comments and beta on the first draft. Huge thanks to fairestcat for initial plotting, holding my hand, prodding and the last minute final beta--it would not have been written without you! Thanks to lunasky for the wonderful cover. Special thanks to trobadora for having the patience of a saint, you rock in so many ways.

_John ducked behind a parked car as a bullet sailed overhead, so close that his ears were ringing from the noise of it. Panting face down in a pool of stagnating rain water, he considered his options: he could surrender or he could run. Poking his head up quickly during a lull in the firing, he ducked back down in a hurry when the window next to his head shattered, the bullet sailing clean through the glass._

Running it was. If he surrendered now, chances were he would do so in a body bag. Checking the clip of his gun, he cursed. He had shot off an entire clip already and he only carried one spare. Popping the old clip out, he slid the new one in and crouched, waiting for another pause in the firing.

When it came, he launched himself up and around the car, gun coming unerringly up and training on the agents shooting at him. Pop, pop, pop, he pulled the trigger and distantly noted three agents dropping, the remaining two redoubling their fire as John ran as fast as he could towards the American Embassy.

The sharp sting of a bullet to his shoulder made him slip and stumble across the slick cobblestones, his precarious balance gone. With the last of his energy, he made it around the corner into a dark alleyway, the bright coppery smell of his blood overlaying the stench of garbage around him.

Sliding down the wall, he leaned back to catch his breath, blinking back tears and biting his lower lip hard at the burning pain in his left shoulder. He balanced his gun uneasily in his left hand and brought his right hand up to his shoulder to touch his blood-slickened wound. He winced at the shot of pain his touch brought. Pain was good; pain meant he was alive and not dead in a freezer thousands of miles from home. He just had to focus on the pain, channel it into adrenaline. Then he could make it to the embassy.

John held his breath as an ambulance passed by his alleyway, no doubt going to treat the men he had shot. Just a few more minutes and then he could creep free of this alleyway and slink home, his mission un-accomplished. Goddamn them for being cagier than he had expected. And Goddamn the CIA for thinking this mission would work.

John shrunk back into the shadows as much as he could when he heard rapid-fire Russian at the end of his alleyway. He wasn't as fluid as Elizabeth was, but he had a competent grip on the language, enough to understand that they knew where he was and were going to extract him dead or alive, but preferably alive.

His mood brightening, John slid the clip from his gun, holding the two parts awkwardly in one hand as he slowly go to his feet. "I'm over here," he called out. He walked to the middle of the alley, and carefully laid the gun on the ground. Maybe this mission hadn't been a total wash after all.

***

John shrugged out of his heavy coat, the lukewarm heat of the room overwhelmingly warm after the bitter cold outside. After a brief stop in the bedroom, he made a beeline for the small kitchen, his gun now a comforting weight in his hand. He set the gun on the countertop and pulled a half-empty bottle of vodka from the freezer. Pouring himself a generous shot, he took it, the cold ice of the vodka transmuting into warm fire as he swallowed it. He set the glass down carefully onto the countertop and took a pan and teacup out, filling the pan with water and putting it on to boil. Rummaging through his cupboards, John found a box of stale crackers and a nearly empty tin of tea bags. Dropping a tea bag into the cup, he had another shot of vodka and settled against the counter to wait for the water to boil, the welcome heat of the vodka seeping through his veins.

Automatically, he poured boiling water into his cup, watching as the teabag sank and then as it buoyed to the surface again and floated there. He shut his eyes, tired from hours of looking at equations and trying to tease out how to make the clearly related base and ring work together. McKay thought it was some sort of gateway to the stars, if they could only get it to work.

Pretty damn cool, John thought, even if it was in the control of the Russians.

The doorbell rang and John didn't need to look at the clock to know who was calling. No one ventured out this late at night in this area unless they lived here or had to.

Taking his gun and switching off the safety, he left the steaming cup where it was on the counter, and crossed to the front door quickly. After the first time his contact pinned him to the wall and held a cocked gun to his head, John had started to carry a gun when he answered the door, no matter who it was. Some called it paranoia; John called it a survival skill--and John was dedicated to surviving.

He peered out cautiously through the peephole and stifled a curse at who was standing there. Not who he had expected at all damn it, and not something he wanted or needed to deal today. Or any day, he thought and then shoved that thought away. It had to happen sooner or later, John just wished that it had taken longer. It was selfish, he knew, wanting things to remain in their fragile balance indefinitely, no matter how false that balance was. Taking a deep breath, he schooled his face blank and consciously breathed in, slowing his heart rate.

Deliberately casual he unclasped the deadbolt and flipped the two door locks, opening the door as far as the still fastened chain would allow and examined the two men waiting anxiously on his doorstep, keeping his gun carefully out of site, but still in his hand. "Yes?" He asked mildly.

McKay and Zelenka's faces were pale and drawn with worry, Rodney's hand clamped protectively around the strap to his backpack. Zelenka had one hand raised in a fist, as if to knock again and in his other hand he carried a cloth sack. The stark fluorescent hallway lights flickered and tension thrummed heavily through the thick silence in time with the loud ticking of John's kitchen clock.

"Are -- are you free right now?" Rodney stuttered. "Um, if you're busy, we can come back later." He started to edge away, arms pulling the backpack even further into the protection of his arms.

"Rodney! We need to do this now." Zelenka hissed under his breath and turned to John, "We urgently need to speak to you."

John studied Zelenka thoughtfully before carefully asking: "About what?"

"Your copy of War and Peace."

That threw John and he scrambled to cover, "What about it?"

"Could I examine it?" Zelenka leaned in close enough for their warm breath to mingle.

"Why do you want to examine my copy?" He stalled, frantically trying to remember if there was a War and Peace code. He came up blank.

Zelenka fixed John with an uncharacteristically sheepish expression, "At University, I noticed significant differences in the various English translations for War and Peace. It has become somewhat of a hobby for me."

John stared at Zelenka.

"I would have studied Russian literature further if I had been allowed. Alas, my fellow Czechoslovakians needed my math and science abilities more." Zelenka finished sadly, honesty emanating from his words.

Not that John believed him, of course. But there was something in the way that Zelenka was holding himself and the way that Rodney kept glancing up and down the hallway and looking like he was about to take off like a skittish cat that had him saying, "You have five minutes," and shutting the door so that there was enough slack to slide the chain free.

He stepped aside and let them in, locking and chaining the door again. Thumbing off the safety but keeping his gun gripped firmly, he leaned against the closed door and watched his two visitors, analyzing their body language while waiting for them to break the stalemate.

Zelenka held himself far too tightly for someone here to just borrow a book and his eyes darted around too much for him to be unfamiliar with John's business. Rodney's posture was as stiff and unyielding as his gaze, and his eyes went wide when he noticed the gun in John's hand. Yeah, things were going to get seriously fucked up soon. And John was going to be smack dab in the middle of the mess.

All he hoped for was that he'd still be breathing with all of his limbs attached at the end, no matter how many black marks he had to get to do so. With the black marks already on his record, John would be satisfied enough with still having a job.

Rodney swayed on his feet and Zelenka hurried over to him, giving Rodney a stern look, "When was the last time you ate?" He fussed, taking his arm and leading Rodney to the kitchen.

John started to object at his home being taken over by Zelenka and his protestations died when he reached the kitchen door and saw Zelenka giving the still open bottle of vodka on the counter a dirty look before reaching into John's sugar dish and taking out several cubes and handing them to Rodney, who took them without comment. Rodney was leaning heavily on the counter and the knuckles on his fingers were white where they gripped it tightly, his face flushing and his limbs trembling as the sugar hit his bloodstream.

It wasn't until Zelenka was apparently satisfied that Rodney was out of imminent danger that he diverted his attention again to John. "You," he said to John, pointing to him with his free hand, "feed him something before he passes out, the sugar won't work for long. Where are your books?"

John blinked under the force of Zelenka's words, shocked at how quickly the usually-stubborn McKay obeyed Zelenka. John found himself obeying as well, pulling out a loaf of almost-stale bread from the fridge, momentarily forgetting that they were not in the lab and he didn't have to obey Zelenka like that in his own damn home. However far away from his birth country and however far from being home it was.

He shook himself mentally and took out a bread knife, cutting a thick slice and watching Zelenka cross the short distance to his bookcase and start to browse the shelves. John handed the slice to Rodney and studied him, Zelenka's frequent hmms and hums over the contents of his bookshelf fading into the background as he watched Rodney devour the bread and his shaking slowly ease.

The loud buzzer of his doorbell rang and jolted him back to the present.

Rodney looked at him with a profoundly perplexed look on his face, "Visitor? At this time of night?"

John smiled wanly at him and looked at the small clock on the wall. Shit, shit, shit. He had been hoping to get Rodney and Zelenka out of his apartment without them being seen by his contact and without having to explain to either of them why an American citizen was meeting with a known member of the KGB. "You could say that."

Zelenka rejoined them in the kitchen, John's copy of War and Peace in hand, "I have the book. I will return it to you soon." And started towards the door with long, purposeful strides, John grabbed the back of his shirt and stopped him.

The buzzer sounded again, "Wait!" He said low and urgent, "Not that way. Go to my bedroom and shut the door, there's a fire-escape there. Go to the roof and wait." He held his hand up to stop Rodney from speaking, "No time to explain now. Just go!" He let go of Zelenka and pushed him towards his bedroom. "Just a minute," he called out louder and went to get his gun again.

He waited until the door clicked shut before looking through the spy-hole and then opening the door for a short man with a perpetually sour expression. He stepped aside and let the man in, closing and locking the door securely behind him.

"You need to work on your respect, Major Sheppard." He said in heavily accented English, settling himself into John's most comfortable chair and lighting a cigarette, the acrid smoke curling around his head. "I expect you to answer the door much more promptly next time.

John nodded, knowing that it was best not to speak unless he was ordered to. He had learned the hard way how Yakovlevich punished those who failed to follow his orders and had to suppress a shudder at the memory of those events. With Yakovlevich it was best to not show any sign of weakness or indecision.

"How are things at the lab?" Yakovlevich tapped the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray John kept for him.

"Things are fine."

"Is your government satisfied with the work you are doing?"

John nodded.

"Do they...suspect anything?" He said meaningfully.

John shook his head.

Yakovlevich smiled nastily, "Good, good." He raked his eyes up and down John's lean form, "Just like you."

Revulsion shuddered through John, "Thank you, sir," he said and swallowed down the wave of nausea that threatened to crest through him. God, he hoped tonight wasn't one of the nights where Yakovlevich showed just how good he thought John was.

"Unfortunately," he said, his eyes resting on John's crotch as his own hand wandered down to his lap, "I am running late tonight, perhaps next time.

John nodded and swallowed, trying to get moisture to speak in his bone-dry mouth, "Perhaps next time." As soon as Yakovlevich left John usually took a shower as hot as he could stand it and his meager supply of hot water would allow. It was never enough to wash away the dirty, used feeling that Yakovlevich left with his words and touch, but it helped. He thought about the visitors on his roof; somehow he didn't thing he was going to get a shower tonight.

"Today though," Yakovlevich continued, putting his cigarette out and clasping his hands together, "I have an assignment for you." His hard eyes twinkling with barely restrained malice, "something to show me you understand our alliance," he finished almost gleefully,.

Shit. It was never good when Yakovlevich got excited over something. "What is it, sir?" John asked, internally proud when his voice didn't break or stumble over his words.

"Assassinate Dr. Rodney McKay."

***

_Rodney was deep in concentration at his workstation when John arrived, escorted by a young Japanese woman who tapped Rodney on the shoulder. Rodney waved a hand distractedly and said "What is it now Miko?"_

Miko cleared her throat, "Dr McKay, your new aide is here."

"What?" Rodney asked, stopping his work and looking at her with a questioning look.

"This is Dr John Sheppard," Miko continued, "he is here to replace Kavanagh."

"Oh. Huh, that's why I haven't seen him for the last month." Rodney pinned John with an assessing look before offering his hand, "Dr Sheppard, I hope you're better than Kavanagh was."

John shook his hand, "Thanks, I think."

Releasing his hand, Rodney turned back to his work, "Put him with Zelenka."

"Good to meet you too," John muttered under his breath and let Miko lead him over to Zelenka's station.

Zelenka glanced up from his own work and said, "Do you do math?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Good." He shoved a thick binder into John's hands. "Do those equations."

_***_

John paled and his stomach roiled unpleasantly, "I -- I don't mean to question your judgment, sir, but he's one of the top scientists on this project."

Yakovlevich waved away John's concerns with one hand, the other digging deep into his coat's inner pocket and drawing out a thin sheaf of papers and photographs, "Yes. But he has become troublesome. I think he suspects," he said and laid out three photos and a typewritten sheet on the coffee table in front of him.

The three photos were of Rodney and Zelenka huddled close together on a park bench, Rodney's face frozen in shock at whatever Zelenka had told him. The pictures were bad enough, but it was the paper that was truly damning. In orderly 12 point Times New Roman, the dialog of their conversation was laid out and John knew in the bottom of his gut that somehow, Zelenka knew everything.

Another goddamn wrench in the problem, and John had been so sure that Zelenka was clean.

"I --" John took a deep breath and steadied his thoughts and voice, carefully keeping his face blank, "I see. When?"

"As soon as possible. Do I need to remind you of the consequences if you fail?" He took a last photograph from the sheaf and considered it thoughtfully before placing it on the table across two of the photos.

John shook his head, his attention riveted to the photo and all the secrets it contained. "No, you don't."

"Good," he gave John another nasty smile, gathered the documents together again in their sheaf and tucked them away back into his jacket pocket before rising, "the devices you hid in your apartment gave our technicians many problems, but we fixed them." He made the short way to the door and started to unlock it and then stopped, turning to John and fixing him with a fierce stare, "Do not forget Major, we know all. We see all. And you are ours now," and let himself out, the door slamming shut behind him.

John automatically locked the door and slumped against it, his mind racing and his gut on fire. An uneasy feeling had been brewing inside him for days now, but even he hadn't thought it would be this bad or this urgent. And now he couldn't even count on his statements this evening being backed up by the audio from the bugs wired in his apartment.

John took a deep, calming breath and tried to center himself and rid himself from as much of the dirty taste and feel that Yakovlevich always left behind after one of his visits. If this was going to work, he had to be in control and sure of himself. Otherwise, the alternative was something that had frequently kept John up and turning in his sleep.

Straightening himself, he pushed off the door and went purposefully into the kitchen. He had dishes to do, and while it wasn't the sort of work that truly cleared his brain, it was better than sitting in his chair for the next ten minutes and panicking over what he had to do. At least if he let his thoughts run wild while he was clearing up, he would accomplish something.

Stopping the sink, he turned the water on as hot as he could stand it, squirted in a little dish washing liquid and watched as a thin film of bubbles appeared where the water poured in, ebbing towards the edge of the sink. He slid the dishes in carefully and grabbed a sponge and started to attack the dishes with his pent up anger and fear. His tea, now gone cold, he left sitting on the table, forgotten.

Ten minutes later, the kitchen was spotless and the dishes dried and put away tidily. He went to the door and had his hand on his scarf before he stopped. _It may be overly paranoid but_, he thought as he took his hand away from the scarf and looked at the clock on his living room wall, _I'll wait five more minutes_. John knew someone was watching his building closely, had known it for quite some time, long enough to know that in ten minutes there would be a shift change.The extra five minutes would also give him a chance to check the contents of his briefcase one last time as well as put on long underwear and a heavier sweater. God only knew the next time he might have a chance to be inside.

His bedroom was dark and icy cold from the still open window. John stuck his head out and listened. Over the dampening silence of the snow and the occasional car motor he could just barely hear Rodney and Zelenka talking. He couldn't understand more than a word or two of what they were saying, but it was clear from the tone that Rodney was panicking.

Fuck.

John looked across the street and saw Yakovlevich leaning against the back door of his car, his dark coat blending into the black car behind him and the dull light of the streetlamp illuminating his face. He gave John a wave and an incline of his head before straightening and getting into his car, the slam of his door closing echoing loud in the night before the engine started and the car pulled away.

Double fuck.

John quickly grabbed his heaviest sweater and his thickest long johns out of his dresser and skinned out of his clothes, not caring that anyone walking the streets below would be able to see his naked skin. He dressed as quickly as he had undressed and sat down on the edge of his hard bed to tie the laces of his boots, double knotting them. Finished, he stood and then knelt down on his knees and reached knowingly under his bed. There should be a catch... there. He pried two floorboards up carefully, and pulled his briefcase from it's careful hiding place. He didn't bother to replace the boards. Grasping the cool leather of the handle, he pulled it out, stood, and set the briefcase on the bed. He thumbed in the combination and popped it open, surveying its contents with a satisfied nod.

Closing the briefcase, he locked it again and went for outer wear, slipping them on and fastening them securely. Going back to his bedroom window, he switched off the light and paused, leaning the briefcase against the wall, to look across the street, letting his eyes adjust to the dark of night. It wouldn't do to go rushing out up the icy, iron fire-escape and not be able to fully see.

When he could see adequately, he swung one leg out, grabbed the briefcase and swung his other leg out. Carefully standing on the slick, grated, platform, he stood and slid the window shut, listening with satisfaction as it glided quietly closed.

Balancing the briefcase in one hand as best he could with thick gloves on, John started to make the treacherous climb, mentally elevating the agility of both Rodney and Zelenka as he crept up. John gave a moment of thanks to the fact that he lived on the fifth floor, only one icy story from the roof.

Reaching the top, John stopped and listened to Rodney and Zelenka talking, their tones laden with fear and distrust. Taking several deep breaths and shivering a little as the cold air burned his nose through the dense knit of his scarf, he climbed the last few rungs, clutching gratefully to the graceful arc at the top and levering himself over ungracefully, landing on his side in deep snow.

To be met with Zelenka confidently holding a gun trained at his head. Okay, _that_ was unexpected. It appeared this night was full of surprises. "Who are you, really?" Zelenka spit out, anger and betrayal licking out behind his even words, his breath frosty white in the cold.John didn't answer, watching as Zelenka's eyes narrowed further and his finger stroked the safety. His own gun was pressed against against the ground, trapped beneath his leg. There was no way he could reach it with Zelenka standing over him, his steady, unwavering grip on his weapon as unexpected as the weapon itself.

"I asked you a question, Sheppard."

"You know who I am."

Zelenka stepped closer to John and shoved him over onto his back with a booted foot, "Like the organization you seem to have aligned yourself with, I appreciate honesty," and let the foot resting on John's sternum take some of his weight.

Distantly, John heard Rodney let out a surprised gasp.

John sighed wearily, "I really am John Sheppard, and I'm here to help Rodney. I can't tell you more than that."

"Why?" Zelenka asked fiercely, heat burning in his gaze.

"I can't. You have to trust me on this one, Radek." He asked Zelenka imploringly.

"Why should I trust you? Hmm? Do not think that I did not recognize who that car belonged to. KGB scum."

John whole-heartedly agreed with Zelenka on that point, Yakovlevich was grade-a scum, and the sooner John could get away from him, the better. "He is that."

"I wasn't talking about him.

Triple fuck.

John chose his words carefully, schooling his expression into one he hoped radiated honesty. "I'm not KGB. Yakovlevich only thinks he owns me, my allegiances and my orders are elsewhere.

Zelenka studied John thoughtfully, "What did he order you to do?"

The words caught in John's throat. Before tonight, he had trusted Zelenka as much as he trusted anybody. Now he wasn't so sure.

Zelenka slipped the safety off and rested his finger along the finger guard. "I have very good reflexes when I am angry." He told John meaningfully.

Looking nervously at Zelenka, John swallowed and got what little moisture he could into his mouth, "He," he started and broke off his eyes flicking between Rodney and Zelenka, assessing what would be the best approach. Honesty, he decided and took the deepest breath he could with Zelenka's foot still pinning him down and said, "He told me to assassinate McKay."

That was the wrong thing to say and Zelenka's eyes burned higher with fury and rage, his finger moving to rest on the trigger.

Distantly, he heard Rodney gasp.

"I didn't want to! Why do you think I bothered putting on heavier clothing and why didn't I have my gun in hand when I topped the fire-escape?" John said frantically, trying to think of anything that might appease Zelenka and get the gun pointed somewhere else other than his face."Who do you work for?" Zelenka asked again, his foot bearing down to the point of pain.

John's eyes watered and he tried a different tactic, "Look, I can get both of you out of the country. I've seen your files, Zelenka, I know how many times you have tried."

Zelenka paused and John could see his thoughts moving lightening quick across his eyes, suspicion fading and being replaced by calculation. "Where will you go after this?"

"Moscow. The American Embassy." John supplied, willing Zelenka to put the safety back on his gun and take his foot off of his sternum.

"Can you take Rodney with you?"

John hesitated, his original plan hadn't included taking Rodney with him, simply going to Moscow and reporting his findings. Namely, that Rodney was still alive and not dead like the SGC had been assuming for the last six months and letting them deal with it how they saw fit. However, if he left now, Yakovlevich would have another hit on Rodney before John's body had finished cooling. "Yes," he said simply and honestly.

"Will Rodney be safe there with you?" He asked John seriously.

John nodded, "As safe as I can make him." He answered seriously, much to his own surprise.

John let out a breath as Zelenka moved his finger from the trigger, thumbing the safety back on. He kept his foot down on John for another eternally long moment before letting it go, the crunch of it going through the snow to stand by its partner loud in the quiet night. "If you fail, you will pay." Zelenka said solemnly, and went to join Rodney where he was standing by the other wall, his face pale and creased with worry.

Sitting up, John nodded -- he suddenly had no illusions about the lengths Zelenka would go to if Rodney were harmed in any way.

Now, they just had to make it to Moscow.

Standing, John brushed as much snow from his jacket as possible and picked up his briefcase from where it had fallen. Pointing at the fire-escape, he said "We had better get going; the agents across the street are going to make a report any minute." _If they haven't already._Zelenka nodded his assent and started across the roof, grabbing Rodney's arm when Rodney refused to move. Rodney held his ground and pulled his arm away from Zelenka, "Who are you?" He asked, but he was looking at Zelenka as much as at John.

Giving a long suffering sigh, Zelenka said "Right now, it does not matter who we are. What matters is that we get off this roof and back to Sheppard's apartment."

He reached out for Rodney's arm again and Rodney moved out of Zelenka's way, "Not good enough!" He said, anger finally bleeding through his shock, "Not until he," he pointed at John, "and you," he pointed at Zelenka, "tell me what the hell is going on!"

"Do I need to remind you what is in Sheppard's apartment?" Zelenka asked coldly.

Rodney regarded Zelenka, his crooked mouth set in a firm, unhappy line. "No, you don't. Especially since it was your idea in the first place!"

Zelenka sighed, "I know."

"Why does the KGB want me dead?" He asked mulishly.

"Long story, too long to be told while so exposed," Zelenka gestured to the higher apartment buildings around them. "Snipers," he added when Rodney glared at him."

"Too bad. Tell me." Rodney said firmly.

Zelenka sighed and muttered something under his breath in a language John didn't understand. Not Russian, Czech maybe. Zelenka switched back into English, "What will satisfy you?

"Bullet-point version of why he," he pointed to John again, "was sent here to watch me and then kill me."

"Uh, guys, I am right here, you know." John supplied helpfully, feeling a bit out of sorts at being argued over as if he weren't standing within earshot of them.

Zelenka fixed him with a glare, "If your country were better organized, this would never have happened!" He said to John before addressing Rodney. "Your country thinks you are dead."

Rodney's jaw dropped open and he shut it with an audible snap, "They...think I'm dead?"

Zelenka nodded, "Now, will you get off this godforsaken rooftop before we all are shot dead by the snipers who are on their way?"

Nodding, Rodney started moving forward of his own according, brushing hard enough against Zelenka that Zelenka staggered back. He didn't even look at John as he moved past him to stand by the waist-high wall next to the fire-escape and wait.

Neatly stepping in Rodney's footprints, Zelenka joined Rodney by the fire-escape and motioned to John, "You first."

Prudently, John didn't answer, just crossed the short distance to the ladder and dropped the briefcase to the landing below. He didn't feel comfortable leaving it down there, but he also didn't feel comfortable scaling the ladder with only one of his hands free. Swinging his leg over the ladder, he made his way down, hands and feet slipping over the slick metal rungs until there was reassuringly flat, but still slick metal under his feet. Gathering up his briefcase, he watched Rodney come down the ladder, followed closely by Zelenka.

Once they were both standing next to him, John started to push the sash open and then stopped, "Radio silence. Yakovlevich is listening." He finished pushing the sash open and stepped into his darkened bedroom again, holding up a hand for Zelenka and Rodney to wait before entering.

He glanced quickly around the room and tiptoed to the bedroom door, gently opening it and cringing at the faint whine of un-oiled hinges. He had been meaning to get that fixed, oh well, too late now, he thought wryly. A short circuit of the living room, kitchen and bathroom told him that they were still, thankfully, alone. John had a feeling they wouldn't be for long.

They would stay for as long as it took Zelenka and Rodney to remove whatever it was they had placed in his apartment and then they would be leaving. By the point of his gun, if need be.

Returning to the window, he stood by the side of it and waved the pair in, watching them clamour gratefully into the room, melting snow wetting the carpet and their breath still white in the air--the heating system wasn't due to come on for another hour. Rodney shot John a poisonous look as he pushed past him towards the living room.

Waiting until both John and Rodney were nearly to the door, John looked out the window one last time and swallowed when he heard the sound of police sirens wailing in the distance. Shit, they didn't have time.

_Please, let Zelenka and Rodney get whatever they need to quickly,_ he thought, _otherwise this is going to get even worse._He followed them into the living room and watched, with a complete lack of surprise, as Zelenka pulled his copy of War and Peace from the bookshelf and put another one in its place. Or, glancing critically at Zelenka's bag, Zelenka took his own copy back and returned John's to its rightful place.

"Here," Zelenka said as he handed John the book, "get it safely to Moscow. Many lives depend on it. It would be most dangerous in the hands of the KGB." He stepped away from John and gathered up his bag and headed towards the door.

John stopped him with a hand to his shoulder and shook his head, pointing back towards his bedroom. He hated the thought of scaling that icy ladder down to the ground, the three of them easy marks for even the worst gunman. Still, it was better than trying to fight their way down the stairs, and quicker too. Handing the book to Rodney, he watched as Rodney put it into his satchel and tied it securely shut.

Signaling for his companions into the kitchen, John unlocked his door and poked his head out of his door and looked up and down the hallway quickly, breathing a small sigh of relief when it was empty and quiet. The police and KGB hadn't made it up this far yet. They still had time.

Shutting the door, John locked it and pushed an armchair against it. It wouldn't hold them out for long, but hopefully it would be enough so that they could at least get outside onto the landing of the fire-escape.

Moving quickly through the apartment, John ushered the other two men into his bedroom and out the window again. Outside, it was snowing with increasing winds that blew the fine snow hard and sharp into their faces. John pulled up his scarf over his mouth and braced himself against the metal railing, the wind biting into the exposed flesh of his face.

Zelenka went over first, his feet and hands sure and agile as he scrambled over the edge and down the ladder into the swirling snow below. He disappeared in an alarmingly short amount of time.

Rodney didn't move, plastered against the wall next to John's bedroom window, shaking his head and saying something that John couldn't hear over the roar of the wind.

Reaching out his hand, John waited for a long moment, hearing nothing but the sound of the storm around them. Slowly, Rodney moved, his hand reaching out to meet John's.

John tugged on Rodney's hand and jerked his head towards the fire-escape. Rodney shook his head again and let go of John's hand. He started back towards the window, stumbling back towards John when the upper pane of glass shattered and the echo of a gunshot pierced the storm-noise.

He didn't resist when John took his hand again and pulled him towards the fire-escape, only waiting until Rodney's head dipped beneath the railing to follow him. They went down this time far faster than they had before, fear pushing them to go faster, to slip and slide down the ice covered rails.

There was a large bank of snow at the bottom of the ladder, something that John was grateful for--it cut the normal ten foot drop down to a more manageable 6 foot drop and cushioned their fall. They scrambled out of the snow bank with the powder fine snow packed into every fold and slit in their clothing and melting wherever it touched bare skin.

John shivered and wiped the snow from his eyes, blinking rapidly to keep the water from his eyes. And saw three armed men with Zelenka. Zelenka looked disappointed and a sadistically amused looking Yakovlevich stepped from the shadows. Even in the low visibility, John could tell that the man was planning something.

And he really didn't want to find out what it was.

He didn't have long to wait, Yakovlevich beckoned one of the armed men close to him and whispered for a long moment into his ear before pulling back, exhuding authority.

Yakovlevich grinned sharp and nasty, "I am disappointed in you John Sheppard. I give you one simple task and you cannot complete it. I expected more from you. You leave me no choice," he raised his hand and the man he had spoken to stepped forward, raising and cocking his gun.

Yakovlevich nodded and the gun pointed at Rodney, who just looked at John with eyes full of fear and shock. Oh, god.

By the way Yakovlevich smirked, John knew that he looked as shocked as he felt. Swallowing down rising bile, he forced himself to speak, "What do you want me to do?" And hated how broken and high his voice sounded.

Shaking his head, Yakovlevich tsked, "I wanted you to kill Rodney. But you failed, and now you will watch him die."

"Zelenka?" Rodney said, his voice barely audible over the storm.

Zelenka didn't say anything at first, silence stretching between them. When he spoke, it was as quiet and sad as Rodney's had been, "I am sorry, I had no choice," and shook his head, stepping back and turning away.

"Coward!" Rodney yelled and started to advance, only to be stopped by one of the armed guards stepping between them and lovingly stroking his gun.

Taking a deep breath, John shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them again, a plan quickly forming. He would have to trust Rodney, trust that he wasn't working for the KGB. Trust that he would watch John's back and not get his head shot off while doing it.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked again, lowering his head in submission.

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Yakovlevich waving away the guard assigned to John, his heavy breath and cloud of cigarette smoke drawing nearer. John tried to stop the shudder that ran through him as Yakovlevich drew one kid-gloved finger down his cheek and then slapped him hard. "I've missed you," he said, and John knew that if he looked up Yakovlevich would be smiling lasciviously at him. "When Rodney is dead, we're going to spend a long time together. I'm looking forward to it."

The hand dropped to John's shoulder and squeezed hard, pushing him down onto his knees. John dropped ungracefully, biting back a wince as his knees hit the hard ground, the case dropping with a thud next to him.

***

_He sat down at the bar with a sigh, his limbs aching from exertion as he ordered a shot of vodka._

A blond man sat next to him, edging closely into his personals space, "American?" he asked in heavily accented English.

With a nod, John said "Yes" and took the first sip of his vodka, eyes watering as it burned down his throat.

"Buy me a drink?" he asked and placed his hand on John's knee.

Giving the other man an appraising glance, John asked "What's your name?"

"Filip" he said, looking up at John from under his eyelashes, "What's yours?"

"John," he answered and covered Filip's hand with his, flagging down the bartender to order two more drinks. The bartender set down their drinks on the bar, the glasses making a solid noise where they hit.

"Da," Filip said and tipped his glass to John before taking the shot and setting the glass back down on the bar.

John followed suit, the burn from the cheap vodka making his eyes water. "Another?"

Filip shook his head, "No. I can think of better things to do," he said and rubbed his knee against John's.

John rubbed back, "Like what?"

"Come with me and find out," he said and got up from his seat and headed towards the back door.

Slapping down a few bills, John followed him out the door and into a poorly lit alley where Filip was leaning against the wall next to the dumpster with his hands in his pockets. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, walking over to Filip and leaning in close enough that their breath mingled.

"Do you suck cock?" Filip asked bluntly.

"Yes," John whispered and dropped to his knees, the dirt and gravel of the alley matching how he felt. You want to fly, he told himself as he lowered Filip's fly with one shaky hand and leaned forward to nuzzle his underwear, bile rising in his throat.

He jerked back gratefully when loud clapping erupted at the end of the alley, thank God, it was almost over. "Major Sheppard," a deep Russian voice said, "I have a proposal to make you."

_***_

__With a mean smile, Yakovlevich held John's head roughly and closed the space between them, the soles of his dress shoes slipping on the ice and throwing him just off balance enough for John to finally be able to act. Adrenaline humming through him, John raised his arms over his head and pushed out and back, twisting his head to free it of Yakovlevich's hands. Yakovlevich fell with a loud thud and a long string of Russian curses.

Skating forward on his knees, John yanked Yakovlevich up onto his knees and wrapped an arm around his neck. Squeezing tighter, John couldn't help smiling at the hiss of pain Yakovlevich made as he John groped in the man's pocket for the gun he knew was always there. Giving a satisfied grunt when he found it and using Yakovlevich as a shield against the short bursts of machine gun fire flying over his head, John aimed the gun at Rodney's guard and looked at Rodney out of the corner of his eye.

Rodney still held the satchel and was using it as a shield, his face contorted with murderous rage as his guard edged closer to him, the snub of his machine gun waving between them as Zelenka's guard rushed him away.

Catching John's sidelong glance, Rodney flicked his eyes over to his guard and started to raise his hands. John nodded and Rodney raised his hands up all the way, "I'll go," he said as his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Chuckling, the guard closed the two steps to Rodney and shoved the snub of his gun hard into Rodney's gut, holding it there for a long moment, "I should kill you," he said and grabbed Rodney's wrist hard and twisted it behind his back. "But I owe Sheppard a favor," he finished and pushed Rodney at John.

Rodney stumbled out of the man's grasp and over to John. John jerked his head back and Rodney moved behind him, the straps of his bag ticking the back of his neck.

Keeping the gun trained on the guard, John tightened his grip on Yakovlevich's neck, "Who are you?"

"Sasha, I'm a friend of Dr. Weir's. Let Yakovlevich go," he answered shortly.

John studied Sasha for a long second and then switched his aim from Sasha to Yakovlevich and shoved him forward hard onto his hands and knees. "Now what?" he asked.

"Behind me," Sasha instructed, giving John an approving look when he kicked Yakovlevich hard in the stomach.

"Rodney!" John said and tried to hook an arm around his bent elbow.

Rodney didn't move, just jerked his elbow away from John and lifted his chin defiantly, "No," he said stubbornly.

"Rodney, any minute now this place is going to be crawling with people who want to kill you," John returned hotly and grabbed the sleeve of Rodney's jacket, trying to get him out of the line of fire. Sasha might be on their side, but John didn't doubt for a moment that if Rodney got in the way Sasha would shoot him too.

"How do I know you're not going to kill me?" he asked back mulishly.

Taking a deep breath, John tried to marshal his patience. "You don't," he answered honestly.

After an eternally long moment, Rodney nodded and stepped around Yakovlevich, shrugging off John's grip.

"The KGB does its own housecleaning," Sasha said grimly when John and Rodney were behind him.

Holding up his hands in surrender, Yakovlevich said to John, "I can help you and Rodney escape."

Sasha didn't give them a chance to reply, simply pulled the trigger and sent out a short blast of bullets that had Yakovlevich jerking back, the spray of his blood staining the muddy slush around them bright red.

From the quick glance John gave him, it was clear that Rodney had never seen someone die violently before. Resting a comforting hand on his shoulder, John returned his attention to Sasha. "What now?"

"First shoot me," Sasha said.

"And then?" John asked.

"I am behind on my correspondence and owe Dr Weir a social telephone call. Take this with you," he handed John his machine gun. "Tragically, I was shot trying to stop you from escaping after you killed Yakovlevich."

John hesitated for a moment before taking the gun from Sasha's hand and pulling the trigger for a split second.

Sasha hissed as his arm jerked back from the impact and shouted "Go!" to them before pressing his hand against his bleeding shoulder.

John picked up his briefcase and started to run away from the approaching sirens.

"You don't have to do this!" Rodney protested as John tugged him into an alleyway just in time for a police car with flashing lights and sirens to roar past.

"Do what?" John asked wearily, hugging the wall as closely as possible.

"Turn me into the KGB. That's why you're here, shooting that guy was just to prove your loyalty. You're not here to save me. Oh, god, I'm going to die," the last part was whispered as he edged away from John slightly.

John twisted to face Rodney, his face yellow and shadowed in the street light, "What?"

"Oh god, you're going to kill me like you said earlier. You and Zelenka, you're on the same side. I never should have left Canada." Rodney moaned faintly and tried to back up away from John. John grabbed his wrist and pulled him close again, his pulse frantically fast under John's fingers and his body springboard tight against his.

"Rodney, I'm not going to kill you," John whispered harshly into his ear, taking a deep breath and willing his body not to respond to Rodney pressed up warm and tight next to him. He didn't mention Zelenka.

"Then what are you doing?"

John checked his gun again to make sure the safety was off, "Look, I'll explain later. Just...trust me, okay?" he asked, pouring every bit of honesty he could into his words.

  
Rodney paused for an eternally long moment, a wild range of emotions flickering across his face, before nodding, "Where are we going?"

"It's safer if you don't know." John replied shortly, his own heart beating faster as Rodney's pulse calmed. He couldn't let Rodney affect him like this. Not now. Not when they were in danger. Maybe once they were out of danger -- he squelched that thought brutally. The price he'd paid to keep flying was high and, as the old wound in his shoulder twinged, he had no desire to pay it again.

***

John winced as the keys rattled when he took them out and started to work on the deadbolt, his gut churning and his palms sweaty with nerves. They were in the back of the building, but as John was all too aware, neither of them were properly attired for sneaking around in the dark. Tan overcoats practically glowed under the full moon, as bright and attention getting as the several feet of snow blowing harshly around them like stinging ice and piling into ever higher drifts.

He only hoped that no one would see their footprints until they had moved on to the next safehouse. He couldn't be sure if Elizabeth had received his message and had made preparations for their journey, he could only trust. As Zelenka's betrayal reminded him, trust was too often misplaced to offer any comfort.

The deadbolt popped open with a harsh crack that echoed loudly in the quiet night. John spared one glance at the cloudy, purple skies that promised a heavy snowfall. Such small mercies were greater than John had learned to expect, but still, he spared a wishful thought that it would snow heavily tonight.

Keys jingling as he put them back into his pocket, John eased inside the room and paused, listening for any sign that they might not be totally alone. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he took a lightstick from one of his many coat pockets and snapped it, breaking the phial inside. It bathed the doorway and room in a sickly green light. John held it up and scanned the dusty floor and drop cloth covered furniture with a satisfied nod.

He couldn't see all the way across the room, but he could see down the short flight of stairs and enough of the floor to know that the dust layer had been undisturbed for at least several months. Barring incorrect information, this was the only way into the basement other than the staircase leading down from the kitchen and the only people upstairs were the caretaker and his wife--not many people stayed in Salekhard during the winter if they could avoid it. A sentiment that John fully agreed with, frostbite was a bitch and the short days left him feeling depressed and irritable.

Being intimately involved with espionage didn't help either. James Bond had made it look easy.

"Follow my footsteps down and don't touch anything," John whispered over his shoulder and started to creep down the stairs, not daring to breathe as they creaked and settled under his weight.

Half-way down, John spared precious seconds to glance behind him and gauge Rodney's progress. Rodney was several steps above John, his face set with concentration and his hands shaking with either shock or a hypoglycemic reaction. John hoped to hell that it was simply a hypoglycemic reaction and not shock.

The syringe Rodney always had with him would take care of his blood sugar drop even if the promised pack wasn't there. With shock? There was every chance of Rodney dying, no matter John's skill and practice as a medic. John had made it this far without getting either one of them killed, and he was damn well going to make sure they both made it out of this alive.

At the bottom of the stares, John took a hard candy from his pocket and handed it to Rodney while telling him, "Stay here," before he crept into the darkened room, tension unknotting in his chest when he saw the solitary pack sitting next to the only other door in the room.

Taking it across the room to Rodney, he set it down and opened it, examining its meager contents before taking out an electric lantern and a small bag of food. There was barely enough to sustain one man for a week, let alone two, but it was what they had. And only one sleeping bag, just to make things fun.

He handed the bag of food to Rodney, who surveyed the meager contents mournfully, the shaking finally easing as his blood sugar rose. He looked back at John, "You do know that I'm hypoglycemic, right?"

"Rodney," John grated out, "I know. I've seen your files. We'll just need to be careful."

Rodney nodded, and started to walk around the room, his curiosity starting to outweigh his worry. It was one of the first things that John had noticed about him when he had started working in the lab with Rodney and it was still one of his most endearing traits. "Whose house is this?" Rodney asked as he tilted his head and leaned in close, running a finger along a row of books, his eyes squinting as he tried to read the titles.

"They didn't tell me who owned the house. Just that he was a friend of Dr Kuryakin's," John said as he took the lone sleeping bag out and rolled it out on the floor neatly.

Rodney whipped around, "The Dr. Illya Kuryakin?"

John nodded, "Yeah, you know him?"

Shaking his head, Rodney said "No, but I read his papers on physics in grad school. He's not as smart as me of course, but he did have some interesting ideas."

John snorted and bundled the clothes into something resembling a pillow, "Good thing you're keeping that ego of yours in check, Rodney."

"What about you? I know you're not really a scientist now, but you're not entirely stupid." Coming from anyone else it would have sounded like a backhanded complement. From Rodney it was a glowing message of praise.

John scrubbed his face with a hand and sighed deeply, "I promise you Rodney, when we're out of the city and closer to Moscow I will tell you. Just not now, it isn't safe."

"You keep telling me that we're in danger. But what from?" Rodney persisted, pacing over to John and back to the bookshelf again.

"I can't tell you, Rodney. Goddamnit, I wasn't even sure until this morning that you hadn't turned over to the Russians," John finished in a near shout. The room was suddenly silent, John's last sentence hanging loudly between them.

"You thought -- you thought I had turned to work for the Russians?" Rodney asked, confusion, betrayal and anger flickering fast back and forth on his face.

"Welcome to international co-operation in 1989." John said sarcastically and tried to stuff the urge to tell Rodney everything and beg his forgiveness down into the recesses of his heart. He moved away from the sleeping bag and towards the door, "You can have the sleeping bag. I'll keep watch."

Rodney sat on the sleeping bag and started to take his shoes off, "So much for the General Hammond's promise that in this new, enlightened age of Russian-American diplomacy, I would be safe."

John unholstered his gun again and settled on the floor, his back resting against the outside door. "Everyone has their own agenda and no one is safe," he looked down at his lap and then up at Rodney again. "No one is safe now, especially if you have a piece of paper that ensures you safe conduct," he rested his head against the rough wood of the door.

Fully clothed and with his coat still on, Rodney shimmied into the sleeping bag, sighing happily as the warmth encased him. John nearly didn't hear his question, it was spoken so quietly, "Am I safe with you?"

"Yes," he answered just as quietly, "I won't hurt you."

"Ok," Rodney replied and turned over on his side to face John and shut his eyes, his breathing slowing and evening out as sleep overtook him.

John swallowed around the hard lump in his throat at Rodney's trust in him, hating that he couldn't guarantee Rodney's safety from others.

***

John woke with his gun jammed against the underside of Rodney's chin, the adrenaline still rushing through him. Rodney was frozen, his eyes wide and scared, one hand still on John's shoulder, the other laying stiff against his side. John hadn't meant to fall asleep without waking Rodney for his turn at watch, and now -- now the thought of how close he'd come to painting the ceiling above with the insides of Rodney's head filled him with cold fear. He shoved that thought away and instead concentrated on how close they were-- close enough that John could easily see the dark circles under his eyes and the beginnings of crows feet in the corners of his eyes. Close enough to kiss.

Swallowing, he pushed that thought aside and dropped his gun from Rodney's chin down into his lap, instinctively checking to make sure the safety was still on and breathing out a sigh of relief when it was. He shrugged Rodney's hand off his shoulder and rolled his head, neck stiff and sore from a night spent sleeping upright against a door.

Rodney's frantic voice filtered through John's thoughts, "I'm sorry, sorry. It's, uh, morning, I thought you would want to know. Are your reflexes always that quick?"

John nodded, "Sorry, I've been on edge recently."

"I can see," Rodney glared at the gun.

Rolling his eyes, John said "I'll be more careful. Time to go."

"Good," Rodney said and started to fold up his sleeping bag and make-shift pillow.

Fifteen minutes and a small breakfast later, John opened the door and they were off. If all went as planned, in a week they would be in Moscow. If it all went to shit, they'd either be dead or wishing they were dead.

***

Neatly tucking the rest of the food away deep inside his borrowed pack with cold fingers, John watched as Rodney finished his bread and cheese, the trembling in his shoulders visibly easing with each bite.

"God," he moaned as he swallowed the last bite, "I never thought bread and cheese could taste so good. When we get back, I'm going to buy the biggest steak on the menu." Rodney trailed off, his eyes distant and glazed at the thought of all that meat.

John had to bite his lip quickly to stop the smirk from spreading over his face, and also hopefully to stop the hardening in his groin that started when Rodney had moaned. "It's amazing how the simple things taste after you haven't had them in a while," he said carefully, keeping his face blank and not looking at Rodney.

Rodney shook his head slightly and regarded John thoughtfully, the furrow of his brow creasing slightly in the way it had in the lab before he started asking questions. If John had someone to bet against, he would have bet that Rodney's first question would be who the hell John was and would be followed staccato quick by why was he checked up on. John didn't blame him, if what had happened to Rodney had happened to him, he would ask the same questions and probably would not have waited so long. And emphasized his point with his gun.

John was many things, but subtle was not one of them.

Brushing the crumbs from his hands, Rodney folded the handkerchief the bread and cheese had been wrapped in and studied it, "Is your name really John Sheppard?" He asked, his voice tight as if he didn't want to ask but had to.

"Yes." John watched Rodney's fingers as they twirled the folded handkerchief nervously.

Rodney let out a shaky laugh, "You're a real doctor but not part of the SGC, right?"

"Yes," he answered honestly, that part of his cover was true.

Rodney shifted so that he was looking straight at John, his eyes burning with questions and curiosity, "Who are you? And don't give me any of that 'It's too dangerous' crap."

"Major John Sheppard, United States Air Force. I'd show you my pips, but I left them in my other bag," he joked weakly, bile and acid sitting heavy in his knotted stomach.

"Huh, well, that makes sense," something eased behind Rodney's eyes, calming John's stomach slightly.

"How did you know?" John asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Your hands. They're calloused and rough. Plus, you never questioned an order that I gave you. Even Miko challenges my judgment now and again." Rodney paused and tilted his head, "It also explains the way I'd sometimes catch you reaching for a gun that wasn't there."

John stared at Rodney, if Rodney had noticed his hands and weapons before, maybe...maybe it would be worth the risk to test the waters. See if Rodney had more than a passing interest in him. "You're observant," he commented and waited for Rodney to react.

Rodney didn't disappoint. "Of course I am," Rodney said scathingly, "I'm a scientist. You know, I'm beginning to think that you got your degree out of a Cracker Jack box." John watched as it all clicked into place in Rodney's mind, "Unless..."

"Unless what?" John parroted the question back, all the moisture in his mouth going to his palms.

"Unless you're asking me if I have noticed you watching me for reasons other than scientific ones or espionage ones," Rodney rushed out, looking into the bushes behind John's shoulders.

"And if I were?" John asked quietly, concentrating on the small fire in front of them, unable to look at Rodney when he answered.

When Rodney finally answered, John had been staring at the fire long enough that yellow flames danced behind his eyes if he closed them. It was said so quietly that John almost missed it. "I noticed," Rodney said and John finally looked up from the fire and over at his companion.

Rodney's was one line of vibrating tension with his shoulders hunched and his hands clenching in and out of fists. Almost as if he expected to have to defend himself against a blow from John for daring to say that John might be queer.

"Okay," John replied equally quiet and tried not to look threatening. It hurt that Rodney had thought him capable of such a thing and it dampened the warmth that had started to spread through him at Rodney's admission.

"That's all you're going to say?" Rodney asked, surprised.

John nodded and stood, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the knots of tension there and failing. "We need to get an early start tomorrow," he said and picked up their one sleeping bag, unfurling it carefully across where he had sat and towards Rodney.

Rodney didn't stand and the bottom of it landed across his lap, "Who is taking watch tonight?"

John looked outside and up at the clear sky, it was going to be cold enough to kill tonight. The abandoned barn they'd stumbled upon would keep the wind at bay, but not much else. "No one," he said and bent over to unlace his boots.

"There's only one sleeping bag," Rodney said dumbly.

"I know," John unzipped the bag and sat down on the inside of it, he removed his boots and placed them at the top of the bag before taking the gun from his coat pocket and placing it in one of his books. He eased into the sleeping bag and let his sleeping bag covered feet rest on Rodney's lap. "Well?" he asked and turned on his side, looking between Rodney and the open sleeping bag meaningfully.

Rodney stared at John for a long moment silently, biting his lower lip and his brows furrowing in concentration.

John sighed, "Rodney, I'm not going to jump you. Now get in the damn bag!"

That seemed to jump start Rodney and he unlaced his shoes before standing up. Sitting on the narrow sliver of sleeping bag next to John, he took his shoes off and set them next to John's before crawling gingerly in beside him, turning on his side as well and zipping the bag up.

"What's so important about that damn book?" John asked--the silence and Rodney's stiff form next to him getting to him.

"A project Zelenka," Rodney spit out his name in disgust, "and I worked on."

"And?" John prodded.

"And nothing," Rodney said ruthlessly, "I know you're not trying to kill me right now, but I can't trust you."

It stung, but at the heart of it, Rodney was right. If John were in Rodney's place, he would be saying the same thing.

Rodney started to slowly relax his breath evening out into sleep, but John lay awake. It was going to be a long time before he fell asleep.

***

The moon was still high when a branch cracking in the bush outside the barn jolted John out of his light sleep. Sometime during the night they had curled together and his arm was wrapped protectively around Rodney's belly. Easing his arm from there and taking out his gun, he held still and listened intently.

The only sounds he could hear were his and Rodney's breathing and the far off hooting of an owl. Must have been an animal, he told himself as he gently shook Rodney awake.

"Time to go?" Rodney asked blearily and fumbled for the sleeping bag zipper.

"Yeah, we have a long way to travel today." John sat up, tucking the gun into his coat pocket again before reaching for his boots and putting them on.

Ten minutes later and they were crawling through the underbrush, every step taking them closer to Moscow.

***

Their footsteps thudded in time with John's racing heart. They were almost there, almost to safety and a warm meal and a hot shower to wash away the grime and sweat from the last week. John spared a glance behind him and then grabbed Rodney's wrist and pulled him around the corner and into an alleyway, just in time to save him from the bullet that was currently embedded in the soft red brick of the building opposite them.

Finally, they were in Moscow.

John ran down the alleyway, listening intently for the steady slap of Rodney's footprints, the only way he could tell that Rodney was still behind him and hadn't tripped on any of the obstacles in the alleyway. The signs of a failing government were plain to see -- the fanatic Soviet neatness fading in to graffiti adorning the walls and the piles of garbage blocking the way.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a promising window and slowed, reassured as he heard Rodney's steps slow and then stop, so close that he could feel the warmth of Rodney's breath against the back of his neck. John suppressed the shiver of want that bolted through his system. On the other hand, he thought when he peeked throuyh the broken glass and saw a very clearly abandoned basement pub, if the Soviets were at their full strength, there was every chance that that pane would have been fixed, leaving John and Rodney to be perfect targets for the Russians to riddle their bodies with bullets.

On the whole, John preferred not becoming a pincushion and as he squatted down, his shoulder and hip reminded him of this too. Gripping the jagged glass with his gloved hands John pulled the glass sharply towards him, wincing slightly at the high-pitched grating sound it made before popping loose. He gave the dark room beyond a cursory look and, satisfied that there wasn't anyone immediately lurking there for them, eeled through the small opening and landed on his feet softly. Peering into the darkness, John gave the room a once over and -- satisfied that there was nothing out of the ordinary -- he motioned for Rodney to drop down and stepped out of the way.

Sending a silent word of thanks to the world for something finally going right, John watched Rodney shimmy through the broken window with far more ease than he'd expected. Rodney's only reaction to the impact of landing was a short oomph and an even briefer grimace that ghosted over his face quickly in the dim light of the room.

Holding Rodney's shoulder, John pulled Rodney in close and murmured into his ear. "Are you okay?" He asked, squeezing Rodney's shoulder gently in what he hoped was a reassuringly manner.

Rodney nodded and covered John's hand with his own, squeezing back before letting go, his hand dropping down to his side.

"I, uh, I have to check the room," John said inanely, his voice still barely above a whisper.

Rodney started to snort and then stopped himself, amusement shining bright in his eyes. "Go," he mouthed silently and gestured widely to the room.

John swallowed hard and stepped away from Rodney shakily. They were almost there, almost to the American Embassy and the protection it afforded. They were a hell of a lot safer here in this basement than they had been in any place since they had run from Siberia, but the scant miles to the Embassy seemed to stretch longer than the road from Salekhard to Moscow.

Just like the distance currently between Rodney and himself.

Tamping down on the urge to go to Rodney and take his head in his hands and kiss him senseless, John finished checking the farthest recesses of the room. Giving the door a thorough examination with his hands and a cursory examination with his eyes due to the dim lighting, he concluded that it could be a hell of a lot worse. The door didn't feel all that sturdy, but John hazarded it probably would hold up to a few bullets and also a fair amount of shoving. And, judging by the lack of other doors in the room, the stairwell leading upstairs was probably behind it.

If they were found down here, it wouldn't last long, but it would last long enough for John to empty the last two clips of his carefully hoarded ammunition. After that it would be hand-to-hand combat and John was far rustier in that than he cared to think about. He didn't think that Rodney had ever hit anything more than an eraser against a chalkboard though, judging from his build, if he learned how to hit he would be a damn good fighter.

Doing a second quick room check spurred on by his paranoia and his admitted earlier distraction, _Not because you were thinking about kissing Rodney_, his treacherous mind thought, _not at all_.

_Enough!_ He answered himself savagely and finished his second search, stopping inches away from Rodney, his hands itching to touch.When their eyes met, John swore that electricity sparked between them and it was the easiest thing in the world to just lean forward, close that short distance between them and fulfill the urges he had been nursing and denying since the first time he saw Rodney's eyes light up as he talked about the Stargate.

The crunch of a boot into snow and glass made them freeze for long moments, lips a hairsbreadth apart, not daring to breathe until the crunch sounded again, this time farther away. John unfroze enough to gradually ease himself between Rodney and the open window, pushing them away from the thin line of light that splashed across the floor, not stopping until Rodney's back hit the wall, his breath exiting him with a soft sigh. They stood there together, John's hands wrapped tightly around the bulk of Rodney's shoulders, silence stretching infinite between them.

It happened so fast that John couldn't immediately parse what had happened. One minute they were standing still, John pinning Rodney to the wall, breath held in nervous anticipation as two sets of feet ran by their hiding place accompanied by agitated Russian voices.

And then they were kissing.

John wasn't sure who had kissed who first and he really didn't care. They were kissing, finally kissing, and John couldn't quite bite back the moan low in his throat as Rodney skated his tongue across the seam of John's lips.

Rodney's sharp indrawn breath as the kiss ended, was loud in his ear and the stiffening of Rodney's body brought John back to himself, a sharp reminder of where exactly they were.

Fuck.

"Oh," Rodney said simply with realization quietly dawning, "you..."

John buried his face in Rodney's shoulder, unable to bear facing Rodney with his answer afraid of what Rodney might say, "Yes." He answered, bracing himself for Rodney's reaction. He'd seemed to be as into the kiss as John had been, but he'd been wrong about this kind of thing too many times in the past.

Only to have Rodney smack the back of his head and pull his head up by his ears. John twisted his head out of Rodney's hands, finally meeting Rodney's face and swallowed at what he saw there.

"Me too, you idiot," Rodney whispered and leaned back in to kiss John again. "Me too."

John stopped him by saying "Not here," and shaking his head regretfully before stepping away from Rodney and trying to straighten his clothes.

Catching John's hand, Rodney squeezed it, "Later?"

"If you're still interested."

"I'd have to be dead to not be interested."

"Time to go," John said, changing the subject.

It didn't faze Rodney, "How much ammunition do you have left?" he asked, straightening his own clothing.

"If we're caught, we're dead," John replied.

"We'd better not get caught, then," Rodney replied and gathered up his pack, slinging one strap over his shoulder and going back to the window.

***

_"You're a good officer, Major Sheppard," General Landry said, pulling out a thin manila folder from his desk._

"Thank you, sir," John replied.

Landry smiled, "Do you know why you're here today?"

John shook his head.

"We received some troubling photos that I would like you to take a look at," he said and opened the folder. Taking the top photo, he passed it over to John, "Do you recognize this man?"

Mouth dry, John nodded, "Yes."

Silently, Landry handed John another photo, his face expressionless as he watched John. "Do you remember that night?" he asked.

John nodded again, "Yes, I do."

Landry placed a third photo on the desk between them and leaned back in his chair, waiting for John's reaction.

His stomach dropped at the third photo, alone, it was innocent enough. Together with the other photos, it was damning.

"Yes," John said simply and waited for Landry's next move.

"Do you want to fly planes, John?"

"Yes," he said, the forbidden sense memory of the taste of latex and alley-way grit hard on his knees threatening to overwhelm him.

Landry smiled again and John's gut churned. "Then I think we can come to an arrangement."

"What do I need to do?" He asked.

Sitting forward, Landry leafed to the back of the manila folder and took out a sheet of printed paper, "Sign this and you'll fly."

John signed.

_***_

John let Rodney go first through the gate that marked the start of American soil, sweeping the building tops opposite for evidence of snipers. After spending the last week keeping to the shadows every snapping twig sending his heart rate skyrocketing, the collective breath of the KGB hot on their backs, the absence of immediate danger was almost anticlimactic.

Not that John minded. Right now he would rather face an enemy fighter jet and be out of ammunition than deal with the KGB or any spy organization ever again.

They climbed the steps together, flanked by US Marines as they stepped through the imposing wooden doors.

A young man in a sharply tailored suit met them in the entrenceway. "Come in," he said, stepping aside, "Dr Weir has been expecting you."

They stepped in past him into the large entry hall and John couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief as the door clanged shut behind them. Barring the KGB breaking in, they were safe. And, God help him, he was going to get Rodney to tell him what was so damn important about that book.

Elizabeth appeared first, walking quickly down the hall, her face breaking into a smile as she saw him standing there, "John," she said and hugged him tight.

He was stiff in her arms for a moment and then patted her back gingerly, "Elizabeth."

Releasing him, she turned to Rodney and held out her hand, "It's good to see you made it out okay."

Rodney shook her hand and for once appeared to be at a loss for words.

"There's someone else who has been waiting to see you," she said as she released his hand.

The door to their left opened and Zelenka stepped out..

John's hand went to his thigh, instinctively reaching for the gun the guards had taken from him at the gate.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Rodney's voice dripped with contempt. "Dr. Weir, I don't know what he told you, but this man betrayed us to the KGB.""I am sorry, Rodney. John," Zelenka's tone matched his words. "I wish I could have told you the truth at the time, but my plans required my betrayal to seem most convincing."

"Radek spent the last week carefully feeding the KGB teams false information about your likely route." Elizabeth interrupted. "They brought him to Moscow with them to aid in their search. That's how we got him out."

In all the time he'd worked in Rodney's lab, John had never seen him rendered speechless, until now.

"Do you have the item, Rodney?" Zelenka interrupted.

Rodney nodded, coming back to himself.

"Good, I know it has been a long trip, but we need to talk now," Elizabeth said as she looked them over. "You can leave your pack here, John."

John dropped the pack gratefully, rolling his shoulders and neck, still wondering what was so important about the book Rodney had so faithfully carried across Siberia.

***

They sat in Weir's office, Rodney devouring a sandwich so quickly that John was actually frightened he might choke himself. Crumpling the wax paper and depositing it on the desk, Rodney pulled out the book. "Here it is," he said triumphantly.

Weir gave him a brilliant smile and pulled an identical book from her desk, her smile going to more of a smirk at Rodney's bemused look, "This is the key."

Rodney opened his mouth to start to say something, but John interrupted him, "Will someone please tell me what is going on?"

"These two books," Rodney said with glee, "Contain everything the Soviets know about the Gate and," he rubbed his hands, "the probable whereabouts of a second Ancient base on Earth."

John had to admit, that was pretty damn important.

***

"So, you really were telling the truth," Rodney said, his eyes piercing blue as they held John's gaze.

John nodded and took Rodney's hand in his, squeezing it tight. "Yeah, I really was. You still interested?"

Rodney visibly swallowed and nodded, clenching John's hand equally tight before letting go. "How long until we're out of here?"

John felt something warm start to glow inside again--everything was going to be all right.

***

Epilog:

John shivered in his flight jacket, the base might be heated, but it there was only so much man could do to counteract the miles of ice around them. He sat in the chair hesitantly, the last time he'd done this, he'd accidentally set off something Rodney had enthusiastically called a drone before drilling John on what he could access from the Ancient mainframe.

Rodney grunted impatiently and John sat all the way down, the chair lighting up and reclining the same as it had before. "Well?" He asked Rodney.

Rodney studied him, "Think of where we are in the solar system."

John tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

finis

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestion of previous non-con


End file.
